


Omorashi

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [63]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cock Cage, M/M, Omorashi, Utter Filth, Watersports, a bit of dirty talk, but i guess just your general sort of filth, butt plug, clearly, i don't know what this is, my attempts at kinks that are not my own, semi public sex, so i might have fucked this up, this is...i don't know what this is, what else, what is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 00:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5890237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John. The games they play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Omorashi

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the one word bottomjohn prompt series. sorry, not on the blog yet, it should be up by tomorrow though.

It's cold today, the sky a heavy and uniform grey, the time impossible to tell just by looking at it. John glances at his watch, rolling on the balls of his feet because he's cold and he's tired and he's _impatient_ damn it. The solid intrusion of the steel plug is a _weight,_ dragging his attention downwards and making it impossible to stay focused. 

“John?” 

He blinks. Lestrade is looking at him, peering into his face from two feet away. “Alright, mate?” 

“Yeah.” He grimaces, straightens himself and with a forcible effort of will brings himself back to the crime scene. He's aware of Sherlock watching him, the requisite dead body between them. “Yeah, fine. Didn't sleep well.”

Lestrade snorts. “Do I want to know?” 

John looks at him with mild disinterest. “Leg. Probably getting rain.” The lie is worth the mortified flush on the DI's face.

“Oh, right,” Lestrade says. “Sorry, course. Uh, Wednesday for drinks, yeah? Case permitting,” and as he turns away he misses the burning glance of Sherlock's eyes on John and not for the first time John is both thankful and resentful of the tight confines of the steel cage around his cock. He feels it twitch, trying to harden, and he shifts uncomfortably, stirring the thick plug when he does. 

_Shit,_ he thinks, because Sherlock's eyes are fixated now and _oh god that look._ John _knows_ that look. He keeps his face neutral, something he's learnt to be good at, and when Sherlock stands, rising from his crouch like a cat, John doesn't even flinch.

“John,” Sherlock says. “I need you to check over there.”

A few of the crime scene officers, including Lestrade, glance to where Sherlock is pointing. It's past a ridge in the ground, beyond where the path in the trees dip, completely out of sight of the body and the huddle of humanity working around it.

“Why?” Lestrade demands, instantly suspicious of what's being hidden from him. “Did you find something?”

Sherlock doesn't even answer, just sends him a brief contemptuous glance before turning back to the body. “You know what to do, John,” he says simply, dismissively. There's not a single inflection to his tone to betray him but still John only barely suppresses the shiver that wells up. He hums a wordless response and without a backward glance he moves off, glancing around as he goes, trying to pretend he's paying attention to the scene around him but nothing sticks. He is beginning to shiver in earnest now and it has nothing to do with the cold.

As soon as he's out of sight, blocked by the tall ridge and the trees in between, he stops and he waits. He doesn't know how long before Sherlock will come and he passes the minutes trying to control the tension that has him shaking so hard. He closes his eyes and breathes, focusing on inhaling through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. He establishes a pattern, puts all his concentration into it, and so he almost leaps out of skin when a hand suddenly descends on his shoulder.

_“Jesus!”_

Sherlock looks amused. “Looking for clues with your eyes closed? Novel.”

“Piss off,” John says, and his hands are already at his belt and he notices that the shaking is back again. Tension, anticipation. He doesn't know anymore. But the cold air that hits his heated skin is a blessing and dimly he hopes that it does something to calm the aching swell of his trapped cock. His trousers and pants are around his ankles in a single swift move and he starts to bend down to kneel on the ground when Sherlock's hand on his arm stops him.

“Wait,” he says, and his voice is unerringly gentle. John can feel himself relax at the sound of it, the shivers dissipating and he squeezes his eyes shut, taking a breath of the cold air. “John?”

He opens his eyes. Sherlock is watching him, a question in them, and John makes himself acknowledge it, nods. And Sherlock grins. 

“Good boy. Now let me see you.”

John stands straight, red-faced by obedient as Sherlock paces around him. He can _feel_ those eyes, two luminous spotlights that rake his body, his exposed legs and his bare arse with its gleam of metal splitting it smoothly in two. He doesn't need to see Sherlock to know when he's come around to his front. He can feel the heat from his body as he steps closer and John's breath stutters as one hot hand encircles the rapidly cooling metal of the cage on his aching cock. He wants to beg for it to be taken off but he knows he won't be listened to, so instead he stands there and breathes and tries to think of tonight when he will be freed from all his restraints, when Sherlock will take him apart with fingers and tongue and too-soft words and make the whole thing worth it. He can endure this for now, but not even on a conscious level can he pretend he's not loving every second, and when Sherlock's hand dips lower, to tease between his legs and slide firmly against the stretched rim of his hole, John moans and nearly falls if not for the arm that is suddenly around him, holding him there. 

“I'm going to fuck you so hard tonight, John,” Sherlock murmurs against his ear, his chilled skin nuzzling at John's head, and despite the crudity of the words, the tone they're delivered in is heart-stoppingly gentle. John can't speak, something solid stuck in his throat, but he nods, shuts his eyes and hums and it's the same sound he makes when he's in pain. “Cock slut,” Sherlock sighs and again the tone is adoring and John feels the softness of a kiss against his neck. “Now. On the ground like I taught you.”

It is a wrench leaving Sherlock's warm embrace, but it's John's job to obey, not Sherlock's to enable him. And besides, he _wants_ this just as much as Sherlock wants to do it to him. He is trembling again and it is all anticipation. He struggles clumsily to his hands and knees, the trousers and pants bunched around his ankles making him awkward, and without waiting for Sherlock's encouraging hand on the back of his neck, he presses his face to the ground, his arse high and exposed, and the weight of the steel inside him is never so pronounced as when he is in this position.

He doesn't see Sherlock kneel down behind him, straddling his trussed up legs, so the first sign he has of his presence is the sudden tug on the steel in his arse and he inhales sharply, the smell of the loam under his nose musky and overwhelming. 

“Hush,” Sherlock instructs and John nods, wordlessly compliant. He braces himself, clenching his muscles around the plug while Sherlock slowly works to release the core from the hollow centre, and he feels it the moment it's out, the sudden rush of air where no air should be. He groans. He can't help it.

“No noises,” Sherlock says sternly. “You don't want anyone to find you like this, do you?” And for brief seconds John struggles to find the right answer to that question before he realises that it was rhetorical.

This is it for him, he knows. This is what he's here for, to be face down in the dirt with his hole open. This is his entire role because the all the rest is up to Sherlock. John doesn't even get to see but he does hear it, the shift of leaves under straining legs, the hitch of breath as it comes a little too fast, the susurration of skin on skin, a large hot fist around an aching cock. John's eyes are shut tight as he imagines it, imagines Sherlock kneeling behind him, wanking himself off in short furious strokes, the object to orgasm as quickly as possible as opposed to any prolonged sensual enjoyment. The point is to come, and after short minutes Sherlock does, with a choking grunt and John is nearly _aching_ he is holding so still, willing the hole in his arse to be wider than it is because he can feel the hot spatter of come against his bare flesh, but he also knows that some of it goes into the hollow tunnel of the plug and he is almost unbearably grateful.

For long seconds afterwards Sherlock is quiet, present only in the fast pant of his breath as he tries to recover. Not once, since kneeling in the dirt, has he touched John. That's not part of the game. And John, restraining himself, stays where he is because he knows it's not over. He knows what might come next. If Sherlock's in the mood. If Sherlock is able. And he doesn't know what he wants, what he's hoping for, but it doesn't matter because it's not his decision anyway.

And sure enough, after long minutes, he can feel the brush of something damp and soft against the stretched skin of his hole, red and aching around the hollow plug. And then there is another soft grunt from Sherlock and John can hear it, the soft hiss of sound and even over the smell of the loam he can smell it, acrid and overwhelming, and John knows this is why Sherlock had ordered asparagus last night at dinner. He swears he can feel it, the wet heat sliding into him, filling him up, slipping into his gaping hole, and he wonders if he will be able to feel it inside him after. Sometimes he does, if Sherlock has had too much coffee, spending the whole day filling John up till John swears he jiggles when he moves, his whole body turned into a bladder. Other days he doesn't notice at all and it's all about this moment, kneeling on the ground, his face pressed into the dirt so that Sherlock can remind them both to whom John belongs. An unnecessary reminder on John's part. He has never felt so owned simply by being in another person's presence. But he understands this drive. More, he enjoys it, but he doesn't always remember that and he recognises that on occasion Sherlock will have to remind him. 

He feels it when Sherlock finally finishes. Instinctively, Sherlock shakes himself dry and John feels the hot spatter on the bare skin of his arse, mingling with the come that's already there. And then there's the sound of a zip and the pressure and weight of the centre of the plug being deftly slipped back into place. 

There is the shuffle of leaves in loam, the sound of Sherlock climbing back to his feet, and as soon as he does John knows he is released and he stumbles and struggles his way upright while Sherlock watches him expressionlessly. He pulls his pants and trousers back up, feeling the waistband snatch against the edge of the plug, the material clinging to the wetness of Sherlock's come and piss on his arse, and all of a sudden he is aware of the rest of his body again, his aching knees, the stiffness in his back, and the quiet persistent throb of his cock, still trapped, still wanting its release. John ignores it, just like Sherlock does, and fastens his trousers over its cage. 

“So,” Sherlock says as they begin to walk back over the ridge together. The sounds of the crime scene are coming back into their periphery and John settles his body more comfortably around its confinements. He tries to see if he can feel Sherlock inside him but he can't and he's aware of disappointment. 

“So,” John says, and he doesn't look at Sherlock but he can feel the intensity of the gaze on the side of his face. “I'm dying for a cuppa,” John says and his tone is casual, giving nothing away, but at his side he hears the sharp hitch of an uncontrolled breath and a second later Sherlock's hand is snaking into his.

“A large one.”


End file.
